


A Live-In Doctor

by beckettemory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes one day to find that he is ill for the first time in his memory. John attempts to corral his unruly patient without making either hate the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I woke up at six minutes past nine AM on December fourth, which was a Tuesday. Before I opened my eyes I became aware of a dull throb situated two inches above the base of my skull. When I opened my eyes the pain flared and I groaned and closed them again. My room was too hot. I kicked off the covers and rolled onto my stomach.  
Unable to fall back asleep, I sat up after ten minutes. The movement made me dizzy. I stood carefully, if a bit unsteadily, and padded into the sitting room, too warm to bother with putting a tee shirt or dressing gown over my bare torso.  
John sat in his chair and was reading the morning paper when I walked past him and plopped onto the sofa, surprisingly fatigued after such a short walk. I must have gone one too many nights without sleeping. I was finally feeling the effects of running around the town so much; my joints ached. John reached over and picked up his tea, raised the cup to his lips, then paused as he looked at me for the first time. He took a sip and returned the cup to the table beside him, but instead of turning back to the paper, he folded it and leaned forward, eyeing me with some concern.  
“Sherlock, are you all right?” he asked.  
“Of course I am,” I scoffed, ignoring the pain in my head.  
“You sure? You’re pale as a ghost,” he pressed.  
I chuckled humourlessly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, John, but I’m not exactly the most tanned individual in the city of London.”  
He waved a hand dismissively, a bit irritated, though concern was still the prevailing emotion on his face. He was wearing a long sleeved shirt under one of his thicker jumpers. Instead of padding around in his socks, he’d put on a pair of tartan slippers. I wondered why he was so bundled up when the flat was so oppressively hot.  
He stood and crossed to sit next to me. I eyed him curiously as he pressed a hand to my cheek, then my forehead, then the back of my neck. I pushed the stirrings of emotion at his touch aside. Now was not the time.  
“You’re burning up, Sher.” I swatted his hands away and he caught my fingers. “And your hands are freezing,” he added.  
“I’m not ill, if that’s what you’re implying,” I snapped irritably. He stood, hauled me to my feet, and pushed me lightly toward my bedroom.  
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he retorted, following me into my room and gesturing for me to sit on the bed. “Stay,” he ordered as he left the room. I moved to sit at the head of the bed, propped up with pillows, listening to him rattling around in the bathroom.  
He returned with his doctor’s bag and I rolled my eyes. I opened my mouth reluctantly for the thermometer and offered up my wrist so he could take my pulse.  
“Pulse normal,” he murmured to himself, then plucked the thermometer from my mouth. He raised his eyebrows a bit. “39.1°. You’re sick, mate.”  
I laughed. “No I’m not. I’ve never been ill in my life.”  
“Well you are now,” John retorted as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Alright, fever. What else? Headache?”  
I nodded reluctantly.  
“Nausea?”  
“No.”  
“Sore throat?”  
“A tad.”  
“Achy all over?”  
My eyes narrowed. “Honestly, John, I’m not a child. You’ve no need to speak to me like one.”  
He waited, a pointed expression on his face. I sighed.  
“All right. Yes,” I conceded.  
“Fatigue?” he continued.  
“Yes.”  
“Cough?”  
“No.”  
“Anything else?”  
“No.”  
He clapped a hand on my knee gently.  
“Looks like the beginning of the flu. Nothing to do but wait it out, mate.”  
I glared. “Good to know, Doctor,” I snapped. He ignored the pitiful attempt at a jab and stood.  
“You’re not to leave this bed except to take a piss. I will take your temperature every four or five hours while you’re awake. In the meantime, you’re to sleep as much as possible, avoid talking—” he smirked a bit, infuriating me, “—to preserve your voice, that is, and drink lots of fluids. I’ve got to run to the shop anyway; I’ll pick up some lozenges and things of the sort.”  
I sighed, too tired to fight back. “Fine. Bring me my phone, laptop, and violin.”  
He smiled warmly, and the emotions stirred deep in my stomach again. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbled.  
He walked out and returned a few minutes later with my violin in the same hand as a cup of tea, with my phone and copy of Twelfth Night balanced atop my laptop. After placing my violin on the floor, the tea on the bedside table, and the laptop, book, and mobile on the bed beside me, he paused in the doorway on his way out.  
“I’m headed to the shop. Get some sleep if you can, and text if you need me, yeah?”  
I nodded, mildly annoyed, and he left. I heard the front door open and close, and his footsteps down the stairs.  
I looked round my room, noting for the first time how small and boring it was. So. This was to be my prison until I got well. I made a derisive sound and frowned, dismayed to find it was painful. Pity.  
I lay down and pulled the covers over me, suddenly freezing, and curled up into a ball and waited. And waited. Waited to fall asleep, waited for John to come home, waited for anything, really, to ease the tedium.  
Finally, I thought to “count sheep,” as common people do. I began reciting the periodic table in my head, inferring that it was the repetitiveness rather than the sheep that did people in. I made it to cadmium before I drifted off.  
I’d only been asleep for what felt like two minutes when my mobile buzzed and I jerked awake. The sudden movement made my head swim and tighten in pain.  
 _It has come to my attention that you’ve fallen ill.—MH_  
I scowled at the screen.  
 _Sod off, Mycroft.—SH_  
I closed my eyes, hoping my brother wouldn’t keep bothering me. Less than a minute later, however, I received a response.  
 _Temper, temper. Mummy would be displeased. I trust Dr. Watson is taking decent care of you?—MH_  
 _You’ve no need to phone a specialist, if that’s what you’re implying. Now let me alone; I was asleep.—SH_  
I rolled onto my stomach and dropped the mobile onto the floor, planning to ignore any future texts from him. In case John messaged, however, I left the device on.  
I fell back asleep easily and had no dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke some time later to the sound of the telly drifting through the open door. I still lay on my front, and my abdomen was protesting. It took me a moment to realise that the discomfort was not originating in my bladder, but in my stomach. I rolled over, groaning when my stomach roiled warningly.   
I glanced at the clock. Ten past one.   
The usually appealing smell of leftover Thai food wafted into the room. My stomach lurched painfully and I shot up out of bed and ran to the bathroom just in time, nearly losing my balance as I rounded a corner.   
“Sherlock?” John’s voice sounded far away as I bent over the toilet and then he was touching me, smoothing a hand down my back, brushing my hair out of my eyes, cupping the back of my neck.   
Finally it was over. I sat back heavily on the floor, my back against the tub. My eyes were watering and there was a sickly sweet taste in my mouth. John was kneeling in front of me, his eyes wide with concern. He stood and flushed the toilet, then got a towel wet and began wiping my face and neck with the cool cloth. The cold felt glorious against my flushed skin.   
John rewet the towel and lay it on the back of my neck, then disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning with a glass of water. I drank tentatively. When my stomach, didn’t protest to a couple sips, I took a large gulp. John caught my hand.   
“Not too fast or you’ll get a repeat performance.”  
“Fine.” I began to stand. “I’m tired,” I mumbled.  
John helped me up but didn’t remove his arm from around my waist or other hand from my elbow once I was upright. I found I didn’t mind too terribly. He walked me to my room and smoothed a hand over my forehead once I was back in bed.   
“You look rather green, still, Sher,” he chuckled softly. I managed a small smile.   
John got out the thermometer and took my temperature. It had gone up. 39.3º.  
He sighed and left the room, but returned a few minutes later with a fresh glass of water and a cooling piece of toast. He left them on the bedside table and left again silently.   
I lay awake awhile, unable to fall asleep. I got up to piss and nearly fell on the short distance, then climbed back into bed gratefully. Getting bored, I picked up Twelfth Night but found I was too familiar with the text to derive any enjoyment from it. I tossed it across the room and it hit the wall opposite with a satisfying thunk.   
“Sherlock, stop throwing things,” John called from the sitting room. “You’ll put a hole in the wall. Well, another hole anyway.”  
I smirked and opened my laptop. I pulled up the first 1000 digits of pi and quizzed myself. I was spot on until the 254th digit where I had an 8 rather than a 4. Pity. I was going soft.   
I gave up soon after that. I checked one of my favourite websites, a French journal whose chief researchers had all the right ideas on behavioural psychology, but tended to have frankly laughable practical applications for their experiments.   
After I caught up on the last four experiments and checked my blog for new comments, I didn’t know what else to do, so I fiddled around on the internet, watching a few supposedly amusing cat videos which instead made me drowsy. I lay down after setting my laptop aside and fell asleep easily.   
I woke just once before the next morning to find the light off, a pair of tartan slippers next to the door, and a warm lump with a familiar scent pressing down the other side of the bed.


End file.
